The Occasional Hypnotist of Saint Mottsommer Cove

Mottsommer is not typical.  It has its own way of doing things.  It also likes its own company: its privacy.   So, with traditional Mott thinking, it twinned itself with itself.
In Mott there are heathens, pagans and a vicar who, under hypnosis in front of the regulars of “The Crab Catcher’s Remedy”, reveals another and startling aspect of eclesiastic life. There are mysterious hauntings, smuggling, and slave trading.

The Council is rife with sexual deviance. They need more money to fund their excesses and, to get it, propose a new town infrastructure: the townsfolk fight back.

It is a very, very funny book.>




A hundred yards or so before the first cliff-top cottages there was a sign that Marc Darrocq could not recall being there when he was a kid. In places, sea-air-rusted spatters added confusing punctuation to what was written. The sign, if not friendly, remained readable and had a certain directness about it: it was to the point. At its lower right hand corner in small print, the population count a wild estimate by publican Albert Neal, who simply used, and improved, the census of thirty years earlier. His silent opinion reasoned it won’t have changed that much and if it had, who cared? After the sign was painted, Albert wondered why he’d bothered at all: people still came, infrequently, nevertheless two or three cars a year on average were not deterred. ‘Can’t they read?’ he ranted, to anyone who’d listen.

St Mottsommer Cove. Twinned with St. Mottsommer Cove. Don’t interrupt we’re busy. We’re comfortable with our own company.
(Population roughly 3224.)


As already told, the hint had not unnerved all. Measures taken forced a second, similarly rusted, sign to be placed a few yards further on:

We’ve built this lay-by especially for you. Use it to turn round and go: take your troubles and litter with you. We’re private and like it that way. We don’t need your fancy ideas.

Apart from the two road signs and lay-by, the road leading in and out of St. Mottsommer Cove hadn’t changed much in twenty-one years. It went north or south depending on which way you were facing. Going out, it didn’t lead anywhere in particular: just north. Ten miles further out of town it bifurcated. One road to the north-west, the other north-east before doubling back on its self. No motorists from outside were known to have actually died from taking the north-eastern route, though some had run out of petrol and lost weight as a result of their circular misdirection. It was hoped by Mott’s town folk that this other deterrent would be just that: another deterrent.  ***